


Walkup

by Skylark



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Flirting, Caretaking, Fluff, Happy Dirkjake, M/M, New York City, POV Second Person, therapystuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Nice place you’ve got set up for yourself!" you say.  You try to sound chipper, but your voice wavers.</p><p>Dirk snorts.  “I know it’s a dump,” he says.  “You don’t have to be polite."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walkup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaughterOfTheWest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterOfTheWest/gifts).
  * Inspired by [(That Boy Needs Therapy)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/864853) by [Benzaiten (DaughterOfTheWest)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterOfTheWest/pseuds/Benzaiten), [Skylark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark). 



> This was [originally](http://cyanokit.tumblr.com/post/64985751730) me playing in my friend Stella's Therapystuck verse, but it doesn't really fit there. So now it's just a random NYCstuck vignette.

You’ve always associated Dirk with height. He’s taller than you, always looking up at the tops of the skyscrapers when the two of you go for a stroll. He vanishes when he takes a rare break at work, and at length you discover that he eats his lunch on the roof. He loves tinkering with toy planes and designing things from lighter-than-air materials.

So when he brings you to a run-down walkup in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen and leads you up only a single flight of stairs, you’re surprised (to say the least).

It’s not as if he’s poor; he’s not as well off as his brother, whose penthouse suite overlooks Central Park, but he’s certainly got some money saved. You know for a fact that this apartment is well below his means. He has extension cords everywhere to make up for the lack of wall outlets, and blinds that are shut tight against car horns and pollution and the paltry sunshine that filters down between the taller buildings. He turns on the overhead electrolier and the rooms flood with light, bright but not particularly homey. The pipes are exposed, as they are in these old buildings. You can hear the water rattling inside them, and hold your hands near one to feel its radiating heat.

"Nice place you’ve got set up for yourself!" you say. You try to sound chipper, but your voice wavers.

Dirk snorts. “I know it’s a dump,” he says. “You don’t have to be polite. Anyway, it’s just temporary.”

"Oh, are you planning on moving soon?"

"Well, no." He reaches into the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of water—in apartments this old the pipes are leaden and corroding, often not to be trusted. You take the glass he offers you and sit down beside him on the squashed orange sofa that works double shift as his bed, gulping down the cold water until you wince.

He turns to you in an instant, all hesitant concern. “Jake? You all right?”

"Ice cream headache," you mutter, clutching your forehead with your forefinger and thumb. The cushions rustle slightly as he leans forward, then back, and his hands flutter as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. 

Finally, he decides on a short nod. “It’ll pass,” he says, leaning back. You watch him force his face from discomfort back into nonchalance and sigh. This time, you’re the one who leans forward, your fingers dropping from your temples so that you can press your forehead into the curve of his shoulder, feeling pain wing its way down your neck. The tension in his form increases tenfold, and you muffle a laugh into his shirt.

"You think too much," you tell him, your voice dryly amused. "Somehow I doubt you invited me to your apartment to see the view." You feel him swallow, and your voice gentles. "You shouldn't be afraid to touch me, Dirk. I'm hardly made of glass."

A beat passes. His muscles don’t loosen, and he pushes you back until you’re sitting up. You slump with a defeated sigh but he grabs your chin and assesses your face, the wrinkle that creases your brow. Then his hands reach for your temples, his eyes never leaving yours as he rubs in gentle circles. You can feel your face heating up, a mirror of his own, but you don’t do him the disservice of looking away.

"Better?" he asks after a moment.

"A tad," you breathe.

In reality, the headache passed ages ago, but you’re not daft enough to tell him that.


End file.
